


A Tear Worth Its Weight In Gold

by Nasyat



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Coma, Confused Maxwell, Crying Wilson, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Angst, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, cheesy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 02:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15524001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasyat/pseuds/Nasyat
Summary: The sound of steps, as if absorbed by cotton wool… He wanders through the turbid, wet mist that shrouds the consciousness and all of his senses; someone is calling to him, and he walks — floats — towards that voice, on his way to the person that waits, no matter what.





	A Tear Worth Its Weight In Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is the translation of my old fanfic I promised long ago to a friend. A lot of behind-the-scenes emotional suffering, a lot of cheese going on at the end. Not my best work, but a promise is a promise, right?

_The sound of steps, as if absorbed by cotton wool… He wanders through the turbid, wet mist that shrouds the consciousness and all of his senses; someone is calling to him, and he walks — floats — towards that voice, on his way to the person that waits, no matter what._

***

“Who even saws like that, you, you… you great tit!”

“Should I feel insulted?”

Maxwell watched coldly as the scientist peeled off his winter hat and threw it to the ground, stomping it, while cussing in angry whispers. After holding a pause, he noted:

“Considering your size, I’d say you’re more of a tit between the two of us, mister Higgsbury.”

“One more ‘mister’ and you’re getting it!”

Wilson seemed to have calmed down and was already shaking the dirt off his terrible hat. What was the most terrible thing about that hat, Maxwell couldn’t tell for sure — perhaps it was the murky coloration with some kind of incomprehensible pattern, or the pompon that crowned it, idiotic. Either way, the impression it gave, sitting on top of Higgsbury’s disheveled head, was beyond compare. And Wilson wasn’t even aware of how stupid he looked.

It wasn’t like Maxwell didn’t try to delicately convey that message.

“Mister Higgsbury, your nasty hat gives me nausea. Get rid of it this instant.”

“Stop it already, will you?! The hat looks fine, I don’t understand why you’re quibbling over it,” muttered Wilson, before putting the offending article of clothing back on. Maxwell sighed as a long-suffering man he was, and turned his gaze towards the sea of trees around them.

It was still early in the morning. Frost covered the grass with needley, delicate crust, which broke underfoot, crunching. Maxwell was breathing out little clouds of steam; so was Wilson. Through the thick fog one could discern the shapes of crosses and tombstones in the clearing; during the night, the temperature dropped like a deadman. There was a looming sense of danger in the air, but Wilson didn’t see a goddamn thing and kept fiddling with some rare, according to his words, “piney”, in hopes of getting valuable wood and cones.

“Hey, can you give me a hand, maybe?”

Without saying a word, Maxwell grabbed onto the free end of the handsaw.

***

It took some knack (and a lot of swearing) to cut the tree down. Wilson began to wipe sweat off his forehead with a mitten, but froze abruptly, as if pricking up his ears. Maxwell gave him a half-annoyed look and leaned on his knees. He felt drained. Tired, out of his mind.

“Now what, Higgsbury?”

“Maxwell. I think I might have laid an egg.”

Maxwell emitted some kind of a chuckly groan. “Not in your pants, I hope, you goddamn tit—“

He was interrupted by a deafening roar, combined with the sound of moving wood and earth-jarring stomps. The grin fell from Maxwell’s face. Wilson was peering at him with a similar expression of terror. Seconds passed, and he darted off, pushing Maxwell towards the stony plateau.

“Run!!!Runrunrunrunrun—“

But Maxwell couldn’t run. His legs gave way under his weight, suddenly too heavy for him to carry; his mind and body were taken over by weakness. Wilson yelped, and grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging his body with all the might he possessed. The old man was dimly aware that behind the trees, past the graveyard, at the plateau with boulders and leaf geckos, lay a Wormhole. So Wilson was hoping to get there and away from the big — honestly, giant Treeguard. But Maxwell couldn’t run. All he wanted was to lie down and take some rest.

The short man was somehow managing to carry him, almost. Maybe adrenaline in Wilson’s blood gave him strength, or maybe Maxwell really did dry up during the past month. Wilson was whispering into his temple, and the other listened without hearing, swimming in the wet vibration. The situation bored him.

“Please, Maxwell, just a little bit… I won’t manage, stars…”

The walking tree-giant slowly rumbled behind them, rustling its foliage and definitely thirsting for blood. The scientist gave up on trying to call upon his companion’s will and now carried him, red in the face and jaw gripped tightly. Maxwell saw the other’s gulping Adam’s apple, felt his stubble and a racing heartbeat, but as if in a dream. Finally, something akin to blunt worry stirred in Maxwell’s soul. He attempted to push away, to get on his feet — Wilson gazed at him with hope.

“Yes, buddy, help me a little!” He stopped to put Maxwell on the ground. “Come on, just a little bit longer…”

The old man saw how the Treeguard stopped as well, and slowly raised its humongous paw. Maxwell wanted to yell, give some kind of a warning, but before he could open his mouth the monster struck. Wilson flew to the side with a hoarse squeak, like that of a dog toy.

“W-w..!”

Maxwell shook his head and managed to stand up, staggering towards Wilson. The other was writhing on the stones, holding his side and wincing in pain. The Treeguard loomed over him, ready to cleave the tree-murderer’s head in one pinpointed blow, but Maxwell, on a blind impulse, covered the little man with his body. He stood before him, arms spread wide, and Wilson screamed. But Maxwell was already soaring.

It knocked the air out of his lungs, but he soared like a bird, yet saw with a stunning clarity every crack in the stony plateau, every blade of grass that the leaf geckos shedded. After that, he fell — into the long, all-consuming darkness.

Charlie got to him, in the end. Atta girl.

***

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_Cold._

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_Fog; voices. Echo._

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_Droplets on skin. Wet… Rain?_

____

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_Quiet._

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_...Warm..._

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***

He was coming to his senses gradually. First, he felt the lower half of the body; the muscles contracted, and he bent his foot at the ankle. Maxwell moved his fingers, but his hand was tightly pressed by something hot. He heard a sharp inhale, and the rustling of fabric. The man opened his eyes.

“M-muh...Maxwell?” Over him loomed a painfully similar face, completely overgrown with black, scruffy stubble. Wilson stank of booze, and Maxwell frowned, squirming away from the unpleasant smell. The scientist immediately let go of his hand, and began rummaging in a bag nearby. With a groan — at least not with a creak — Maxwell rose his hand and pinched his nose bridge. His body hurt, the cranium was as if splitting in two. He had a migraine.

Wilson crawled over to him, gripping some kind of a greasy sack in his shaking hands.

“Here, Wickerbottom was cooking meatballs today, I stole some for you, even though they don’t give me food anymore…” In the greasy papyrus, which the drunkard offered to him, rested several wads of appetizing meat. With great difficulty, Maxwell managed to sit up and grabbed onto his pulsating head.

“How long have I been unconscious? A day, two? Goddamn Higgsbury, you’ve already managed to stoop…”

“Thirty four.” Maxwell tore the palms of his hands off his eyelids and looked at the scientist with a bit of dark acrimony.

“Thirty four hours. In other words, a day and a half, and you’ve already run wild without me, so much that the decent folk stopped giving you food. I can’t believe you sometimes…”

He kept grumbling, but Wilson just watched him with a stupid, aflutter smile.

“...What? Stop that, your lips are quivering… What?!” Blew up the old man, massaging his limbs. They were incredibly stiff, and ached. Wilson held his hands down.

“Easy… e-easy.” Maxwell took a closer look at his face. Something sat within Wilson’s eyes, so deep, this mixture of guilt, despair and more; this wild concoction of feelings gave him a bad hunch.

“Higgsbury? How long have I been unconscious? ...A week?”

Wilson shook his head (his eyes glistening), and barked out a bitter laugh.

“I’ve just told you, Maxwell, thirty four days. Stars, how I…” And the younger man threw his arms around the other’s neck, drawing him in closely, but carefully. Bewildered, Maxwell felt him shake with the entirety of his body.

“How you… What? Wilson, did I really… A little over a month?” He automatically raised his hands and stroked the shorty’s back.

Wilson shivered and gave a loud, broken sob. Maxwell couldn’t believe that Higgsbury, unwavering, strong and self-assured Higgsbury cried on his shoulder, bawled, like a child or a complete madman. But to give him some credit, soon enough he pulled back, laughing awkwardly and smearing snotty tears all over his face. With his shaking chin, he pointed towards the meatballs.

“Eat some, you need to gain strength… These little things grew cold long ago, but our librarian cooks them with excellence, unlike me.”

Maxwell took the dish and peered at the meticulously formed spheres with detachment.

“How did you know that I’m gonna… come back today?”

Wilson made a sound that was between a sob and and a chuckle. Maxwell gazed at him with disbelief.

“A month?..”

“A month. I cooked food for you every day, in high hopes that our grumpy magician finally wakes up and decides to refresh his inner man.” Wilson covered his mouth, brow knitted pitifully, and laughed again. “They helped me at first, but then decided that I’ve lost it, I guess. Heck, I’m so glad that you’re alright. I was so scared…”

Maxwell listened, as if turned to stone. The situation caused him a plethora of emotions, but one question made him wonder the most — it spun on the outskirts of his mind like a pesky worm, seeping into his thoughts with the impunity of a fly that decided to sit on a slumbering man.

“...into a vegetable. Or that you had damaged your head and wouldn’t remember anything, but then I just… I’m just glad that you’re alive.” With his sleeve, Wilson wiped the tears of relief that began streaming down his face again. Maxwell put the old and certainly dirty sleeve out of the way, and began to softly erase the seal of sorrow off Higgsbury’s face with his long fingers. They seemed to have become even bonier.

“I’m alright. My head hurts and everything feels stiff, like…” He faltered. Wilson’s eyes clouded over, and the old man hastened to continue. “You can’t do that, Higgsbury. Just can’t.”

The scientist swayed, but Maxwell held him in place, before quietly finishing:

“Do I really mean so much to you?”

He saw how Wilson’s hands clenched spasmodically, how his lower lip quivered, but the shorter man pulled himself together, and, instead of crying, he laughed.

“Imagine that! Even I wouldn’t guess. Besides… You don’t know how many times I’ve run the events of that day in my head. The hat, the bickering… I wonder if you’ve heard what I was telling you… while you were ‘absent’.”

Maxwell rubbed his forehead, frowning. “I think  
I remember. Grey mist, and a voice…”

Wilson gazed at him with a smile — almost as usual. Almost.

“Good thing you don’t remember how the kids, goaded by WX, poked you with a stick. I got pretty mad about it; after that, they stopped helping me with the food.”

‘I deserve that,’ swept through Maxwell’s head, but shook it off, forcefully.

“You can’t do that.” Almost helpless.

Some kind of universal anguish came through Wilson’s eyes. “It’s all my fault, I realize that. I chose that tree. I wore you down, and then… couldn’t…”

A shadow of recollection passed through Maxwell’s head again. He looked up, thoughtful. The sky was dark and hopelessly starless.

“Don’t blame yourself in vain, Higgsbury. Why do you think I fell into a coma just because of the Treeguard’s blow?”

The word ‘coma’ (or, perhaps, ‘the Treeguard’) visibly jarred Wilson. He scratched his nape, wincing.

“That was a logical conclusion.”

“My head is fine.” Maxwell tapped his temple pointedly. “So is the body. And I’ve started to become lethargic even before that, remember? When you…”

Wilson winced even harder and flailed his arms, as if trying to wish away a haunting vision. Maxwell sighed.

“You’re a fool, Wilson.”

“No, you are! Why did you cover me?”

“Or else you would’ve died, fool.”

“I’d rather have died, fool!

Maxwell grabbed (quite weakly) onto Wilson’s shoulders, and shook him. The other was pressing his knuckles to his head, fighting another hysterical fit.

“That’s enough. Stop it, alright? And…” That was weak, but had to be said anyway. “Thank you.”

Wilson raised his eyes at him, which were brimming over with yearning and bittersweet desire. Maxwell leaned down, nuzzling his hair.

...Wilson exhaled heavily; Maxwell lightly  
breathed in the smell of his (unwashed, stiff) ducktails.

“What happened to that Treeguard, Higgsbury?”

“I killed the sod.”

Maxwell muffled a laugh. Strong as an ant, sturdy as medical sutures.

More precious, than diamonds. Dearer to the heart, than the blood itself.

He loved Wilson.

“And my bruises?”

“Honey poultice and a little magic.”

Laughter, delicate touches. He was loved.


End file.
